The Adventure on Baker Street
by wellhoneydont
Summary: This adventure takes place before the Adventure of the Empty House, when Holmes reveals to Watson that he was never dead, only faking it in order to fool the villainous Moriarty. Contains slash.


I poured the steaming hot tea into the mug Sherlock always used to use and made my way to his now empty room.

It didn't look like it had ever been lived in; merely a spare room, as for a guest. His notebook was gone from the top of the dresser, a thin layer of dust in its place. There was no magnifying glass next to his worn tweed coat; that, too, was disappeared.

I sat on his bed. I had made and remade it countless times over his absence, as I had done on occasion before when he was stressed, putting all his work into a particularly challenging case. I still am not sure why I felt the need to do his bed; maybe I felt that if it was ready for him, he would come home to it.

I didn't move from that spot for a long moment, although exactly how long I couldn't say. I thought of the time we broke into Appledore Towers, the home of the villain Charles Augustus Milverton, and a curtain was the only thing separating us from our ruin. He had taken my hand and squeezed it, and I could feel the pressure of his shoulder against mine as he tried to catch a glimpse of the woman with the gun. How I had wanted to just wrap my arms around his frame and kiss him on the cheek. He squeezed my hand harder when the woman fired into Milverton's chest. I don't believe the squeeze was for his benefit, for he was a strong man. I rather think it was to reassure me. He was always looking out for me.

And he was always driving me crazy. One day, there were no cases to solve, so we had planned to go to the theater. I was changing in my bedroom, had just pulled on my trousers, when he came into the room, also lacking a shirt. It was apparent that he'd been keeping up his training; his muscles were perfectly toned and I had to remind myself not to stare. I forced myself to accept the fact that it would not be acceptable to kiss him on the stomach, no matter how I wanted.

He had held two of his best shirts up for me to see, one in each hand.

"My dear Watson," said he. "Which one?"

He held one shirt up to his torso at a time, alternating. I imagined pushing them both aside. "Neither." Pulling him in and finally kissing him, right on the lips, making my way down to an area around his trousers.

"This one," I had said aloud, pointing to the one on the right.

"Of course! of course!" had said he, hurrying back to his own bedroom.

But no. I was here, in the present, a cold cup of tea in his mug in my hands, sitting on the bed he would never again occupy.

I bit back tears. I couldn't weep over him any longer. He was dead, killed on the job. There was no changing that.

I stood, found the kitchen, and dumped my tea into the sink. I refilled the mug with brandy and downed it in one gulp.

On a whim, I grabbed my coat and made my way quickly out the door. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew it mustn't be healthy to stay locked up in that house with all the memories staring back at me.

I was, once again, immersed in my own thoughts when I bumped into the figure of a strong man clad in common-man clothes.

"Excuse me, sir, I beg your pardon," I mumbled, hardly looking up at him.

"It's quite alright, my dear Watson."

I took a step away, but turned back around in a double take. I must admit that my mouth fell open the slightest bit and my eyes widened in disbelief.

"Sherlock…" I whispered. "But… it can't be… you're dead. It… But… you're dead…" I loved the impossibility standing before me, loved him with all my heart, but he was obviously a figment of my imagination. I had been thinking about him, so I thought I saw him. He couldn't be.

"Oh, but I'm not, Dr. Watson. Let me take you home and I shall tell you of my adventures. These last three years have certainly been most interesting."

He led the way back to Baker Street, I following in complete and utter shock. Here was the man, standing in front of me, that I had thought dead for so long. This couldn't be real. I was hallucinating.

We reached our own dwelling, and he set to brewing more tea. He laid our mugs next to the pot, either not noticing that his had recently been used or, more likely, simply not bringing it to light.

We stood in silence while the tea brewed, and at its finish sat down in the large comfortable chairs we had occupied so many times before.

I couldn't keep my eyes off him. "So," I ventured. "It's really you."

"Of course, my dear Watson," said he. My heart fluttered at his old saying. "Who else would I be?"

I stared at his smiling face for a moment more and then ran into his arms. He squeezed me back, burying his face in my shoulder. I did the same to him and we didn't move for a long moment.

"Oh, how I've missed you, my friend," I said. My voice was muffled, for my face was still lost in his shoulder.

"And I you," he said back, that lightheartedness that he always had creeping into his voice.

I finally broke off the embrace. "But why?" I asked. "I thought you dead. You are my best friend and I thought you dead."

Sherlock nodded, as if he knew this was coming. "I wanted to write you every day that I was gone." said he. "Multiple times I even was sat down with letter in hand before I realized I couldn't. I am so sorry, but Moriarty would only believe my death if even you did."

Over the next few minutes he told me of his faked death, fake identity, and all too real arrest of the notorious Moriarty.

"So you see, my friend, why these events were crucial." said he when he had finished.

"Yes, I see." I said.

Holmes looked at me for a moment, then embraced me once more. I squeezed him as hard as I could, trying to get closer to him. I closed my eyes tight, silently forbidding any tears to come to light. He squeezed me tighter.

We'd been talking for a few hours at this point, and I still couldn't quite believe he was standing here today, holding me as I'd always wished he would. This man that I loved, this man that I had thought dead for three long years. This man that hadn't left my thoughts for at least that long.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I looked up to the face I had missed so much and pressed my lips to his. In an instant I realized what I was doing and pulled away, my face flushing redder than it had ever been. I pulled out of the embrace as well and made to my room, but he caught my wrist and turned me around. He grinned at me, looking right into my eyes, and pulled me into him for a real kiss.

My stomach reeled from butterflies. To think that he felt the same for me as I did for him!

I let him go and simply stared at him. Today had been an interesting day to say the least, and I was still somewhat in shock.

"My dear Watson," said my friend, breathless. He never finished his sentence, only continued looking into my eyes. He might well have forgotten that he had said anything at all.

"Sherlock," I said, with a somewhat awkward attempt at a smirk.

He grinned and slapped his hand on my back and started forward. "What would you say to a play? Will you accompany me to the theater?"

"That sounds wonderful," I replied.

"Good, good, Watson!" He proclaimed. "I shall call a cart and we will be on our way in thirty minutes!" With that, he made his way to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. I followed suit and went to my room to change into theater-wear. I remembered again the time he barged in on me half-dressed, and fantasized about a recreation of this. I knew there wouldn't be.

I had finished dressing and was only checking my reflection in the mirror on the wall when my friend burst into the room; this time, fully dressed.

"How about this new suit, Watson?" he asked, holding out his arms to show me the cuffs. "Bought it in Liverpool. Very nice, if I do say so myself."

I laughed at him and agreed that it was very nice.

He looked me up and down, made a face that I knew meant he was in thought, and dashed across the hall and back into his own room. I hardly had time to wonder what in the world had just happened before he was back. He had another suit in his hands, brand new by the looks of it.

"Now, Watson, that won't do," he said, addressing the suit I was currently wearing. "I bought you something while I was away, and I think it shall be much more appropriate." He came across to me and I reached out to take the suit for myself, but he wouldn't give it to me. Instead, he set it on the bed next to us and started undoing the buttons of my coat. I stared down at his hands in surprise and I knew he could feel, and most likely hear, my heart beating its fast pace.

Once done with the buttons, he stepped behind me and took it off my shoulders, proceeding to throw it on the dresser haphazardly. I thought he was done, but apparently he had something else in mind than I. He stepped in front of me once more and unbuttoned my shirt, and took that off as well. Before I knew what was happening he was pushing himself against my lips again, and I can't say I didn't gladly go along with it. I only just heard the quiet pitter-patter of horse hooves outside the house, but it seemed too irrelevant, just the passing of a cart, and I was too immersed in my present to pay any attention to it.

I was again trying to get as close to Holmes as I could, and he was working on removing my trousers. He finally succeeded, and I started work on his coat and shirt. I somehow managed to get them removed, and all at once we were lying on the bed next to us, him only half dressed and I not at all. I could just barely make out an angry horn from outside, but I didn't care. I finally succeeded in peeling off his slacks and they joined the pile of cloth at the foot of the bed. I was kissing him passionately now. I couldn't get enough of him, and he seemed to be thinking the same about me.

I heard another horn from outside, and grunted at it bitterly for interrupting my friend and I. Holmes laughed at me, and I could taste his smile on my tongue. We were somehow under the blankets now and I knew what was coming.

Ten minutes later we were lying next to each other, panting, the back of my hand lying relaxed on his bare stomach. He reached up and gave it a brief squeeze then let go to wipe the damp hair from his face. We were laying in the light airy silence when we heard an loud, angry yell from outside. I was about to blurt out, asking what the man's problem was, when I heard the wheels of a cart and the hooves of horses trotting away.

The somewhat humorous realization hit me then. "I think we missed our cart," I said, and my friend burst out with a laugh and kissed me on my cheek.


End file.
